


But This is Not a Horror Movie

by kindoff



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:33:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24734710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindoff/pseuds/kindoff
Summary: Greg almost fell out of bed. Luckily, Mycroft had a sixth sense.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 6
Kudos: 116





	But This is Not a Horror Movie

Greg almost fell out of bed.

Mycroft could sense it. There's a certain degree to Greg's restlessness that signalled a warning to his barely-conscious mind. Maybe it started with the the loss of warmth as Greg clumsily untangled himself from him, followed by the rustle of sheet as he rolled away—and Mycroft reacted faster than his mind could comprehend. He stretched his arm in lightning speed and grabbed Greg's biceps and pulled him back flushed into his chest, all without really waking up.

He remembered Greg coming home earlier with blue around his eyes and slight limp on his right leg. He hadn't tried to hide his concern nor had he downplay his "mother-hen-y tendency," as Greg had so eloquently put it. Greg had had to threat him with a spoon in order to make him back off. How peculiar, Mycroft had thought. Greg never refused comfort or treatment unless he was particularly knee-deep in a horrible case. Maybe today was one of those days.

He made a mental note to ask Greg in the morning. Right now he was quite content with cradling Greg close as a means of preventing the man from tumbling out of bed and cracking his head open in the process.

The ice pack had remedied the bruise quite significantly, but it would take a few days before Greg was able to blink normally again.

Greg didn't know about any of this almost-falling-out-of-bed business. He didn't even stir. He woke up two hours later with Mycroft's arms caging him and chin resting on the crown of his head. It felt a little overwhelming, to be encased in such tight space upon waking up, and Greg's impulse almost leapt to defense. He managed to stay still by supplying his brain with rational thoughts that _he's okay it's okay it's just Mycroft and Mycroft would never do him any harm and Mycroft was actually the opposite of unsafe itsokayitsokayitsokay_ —

He was yet to tell Mycroft about his claustrophobia. Some time soon he would eventually tell the man, but not now.

The windows were dark still. Greg craned his neck towards the wall clock as gently as he could. He had asked Mycroft to invest in some clocks to be put around the house. Mycroft had never felt the need to rely on any devices to tell the time—Greg was fairly sure he could accurately point out what time it was while sitting in a dark room after being drugged and kept for several days—but Greg didn't have that kind of competence yet, thank you, maybe not ever. His request had resulted in a ridiculous amount of clocks arriving at their front door. He had asked for _two_ wall clocks to be hung in the living room and bedroom, was ready to buy them himself too; but Mycroft had gone out of his way and ordered an assortment of antique clocks from _all over the world_ , all came in various sizes and shapes and, well, prices. (Why would he order two grandmother clocks, too, Greg wondered?) Greg had spent an hour fretting to the living room's wall, frustratedly torn between giving Mycroft a bone-crushing hug or decking him with his own umbrella in order to knock some sense into his head. He should have known that his partner was prone to making grand gestures every now and then, and unnecessary ones at that. In the end he resorted to patting Mycroft's flustered cheeks and patiently asking him to consult Greg first before making such purchase next time, and would it be possible to return the grandmother clocks, by any chance?

Now their house bore the resemblance of a century-old clock museum. It’s quite eerie, in all honesty; but Greg would never let Mycroft’s effort go unappreciated. It’s the thought that counts, all right.

Greg blinked in the dark, squinting hard to make out the hands of the clock. It's three in the morning. He still had one more hour before Mycroft's alarm went off. Or not. He didn’t really feel like sleeping, not after yesterday’s encounter with a serial killer who loved killing innocent children by draining their blood dry. He could use the time to review the case further—

"I could hear you contemplating."

Greg jumped, his head jerked upwards, and Mycroft let out a pained grunt. The next few minutes saw Greg fussing over Mycroft to make sure he hadn't accidentally dislocated his partner's jaw. Mycroft was scheduled to have some super-important-highly-classified-God-knows-what meetings today, wasn't he? What could he do if he lost the ability to speak due to having his jaw wired shut after a silly accident called my-partner-bumped-into-me-last-night? That wouldn't be funny. And Greg would feel immensely guilty. He didn't want to be the cause of Third World War just because Mycroft wasn’t able to raise arguments against the idea.

"It's all right, Gregory," Mycroft leaned away from Greg's fretful hands, tone amused and lips curled up as if holding back a laugh. At least he was able to speak. "I managed to bite the inside of my cheek, it does feel sore but it doesn't bleed, so there’s nothing to panic about."

Greg chewed his bottom lip abashedly. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, noticing a small split on his lip. He brushed it absently. Greg’s grimace wasn’t lost on him. "Yeah, right, sorry. Maybe next time refrain from scaring the crap out of me."

"I hadn't realised you were quite jumpy in the dark."

"I'm not."

"The recent circumstance calls for a different argument."

"I'm _not_ jumpy. I face countless homicides on a daily basis, all horrendous enough to make even Hercules piss himself."

"Mm. And yet I recall your rather vigorous refusal to John’s invitation to a movie night two weeks ago. What's the movie called? _The Conjuring_ , I presume?"

“John managed to bribe Sherlock into watching horror movies? Now that’s an achievement.”

“I feel inclined to call out your feeble attempt at changing the subject.”

"If you're suggesting I'm scared of horror movies, I damn suggest you rethink your life decisions," Greg took a quick check at Mycroft's jaw for the last time before settling back under the duvet, no longer tempted to delve into the serial killer case so early in the morning. "Can we go back to sleep, please? You're going to be up in a half an hour and I haven't stocked up enough warmth from you to sustain me throughout the day."

"Very well," Mycroft opened his arm, careful not to bring his hand anywhere near Greg's bruised eye. "Come here, you silly."

They settled back into silence. Greg had just started to doze off when Mycroft whispered, "No ghost will jump out of nowhere and take your life, Gregory. You don't need to be afraid."

"Shut up, Mycroft."


End file.
